


Maintaining a Radio Silence

by purewanderlust



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:18:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winchesters don't talk about their feelings, but Sam's always been really excellent at finding loopholes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maintaining a Radio Silence

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently I wrote this a whole month ago and never posted it, but I think it might have been my alternate personality, because I have no memory of this fic.

Sam's always had unusual habits, he knows. It comes from living life on the road, mostly, and he's just adjusted to it. Only when he arrived at Stanford did he realize it was strange to only unpack the clothes he needed for the day from his duffle.  
  
When you're living a sedentary life, you don't have to be prepared to run out the door at all times.  
  
Another one of his habits that drove Jess crazy when she was alive, was his tendency to wear clothes more than once before putting them through the laundry. At first, he just thought it was a girl thing, but then he realized that he didn't wash anything unless it was covered in blood or goo or whatever. (Maybe the college equivalent was nacho cheese or beer--not a lot of opportunities to get splattered with vampire blood on a campus.) Laundromats were a lot more expensive when none of your money was legally obtained.  
  
But the habit Sam's had the longest, even he can't really explain. It started when he was just a kid and somehow, it's managed to grow up with him and carry on into adulthood.  
  
It's what has him in this situation in the first place.  
  
Maybe he should start at the beginning.  
  
*  
  
When Sam was five, he was a pretty mellow kid. Every adult he ever encountered commented on how well-behaved and intellegent he was for his age. Probably because they didn't realize the militaristic background that taught that behavior.  
  
But even the most well-behaved five year-olds can get wound up by an older sibling. Which is what happened to Sam one day, in the backseat of the Impala.  
  
"Deaaaaaan, that's mine!" Sam shouted, reaching out for the Batman action figure that his brother was making dance across the windowpane. "Give it back!"  
  
"It was on my side," Dean said loftily, in that voice specially reserved for when he thought his brother was being annoying. "I have dibs."  
  
"You do _not_ have dibs!" Sam screamed.  
  
Most of the time, this would have warranted a scolding from his father--John didn't appreciate when Sam raised his voice--but either he was too tired, or too hungover to bother. Instead, he just reached forward and turned up the volume on the stereo. The Eagles blasted from the speakers, effectively deafening all three of the car's passengers.  
  
"You're such a meanie, Dean!" Sam shouted anyway, even though he knew his brother couldn't hear him. "If you were a _good_ big brother, you wouldn't take my toys!" He was furious in the way only a five year-old could manage and when Dean made no indication that he could hear, he turned his back on the eight year-old, leaning against the window with the intention of pouting, but ended up falling asleep instead.  
  
When he came to some indistinguishable time later, the Batman action figure was in his lap.  
  
*  
  
So Sam discovered that he could vent his feelings when the music was blaring, effectively purging himself of the negative emotion while still not actually starting a fight with his brother. It's no family therapy, but Sam figures it might as well be the Winchester equivalent, and that's good enough for him.  
  
*  
  
"I just wish Dad would let us at least stay in a house for once instead of a stupid motel." Sam says when he's thirteen.  
  
"I can't believe you went out with Sarah Reilly, you knew I liked her!" he grumbles when he's sixteen.  
  
"I'm going away to college after I graduate." he tells Dean when he's almost eighteen.  
  
Every time he makes one of these complaints, or confessions, Dean never says a word.  
  
If a tree falls in the forest and there's Led Zeppelin blaring in the background, does it make a sound?  
  
*  
  
Sam doesn't really expect things to be the same when he rejoins Dean on the road. He's had a taste of civilian life, and he's lost it. All he really has to offer right now is his grief and a desire for revenge.  
  
But then Dean turns on the radio and Sam catches himself talking along to the strains of AC/DC. "I've missed you so much."  
  
Dean doesn't look over, but the way his head is bobbing to the music almost looks like a nod of agreement.  
  
*  
  
After that, Sam falls back into the pattern. He figures it must be true what they say about habits being near impossible to break.  
  
"You and Jessica were actually a lot alike," he tells his brother one day under cover of Metallica. "She never took my shit either."  
  
Dean's smirking like he agrees, but Sam knows it's just because he really loves James Hetfield.  
  
*  
  
After their encounter with the faith-healer-who-wasn't-really-a-faith-healer in Nebraska, Dean doesn't want to talk. Sam knows it's because he's still feeling guilty for the death of that swimmer, but it doesn't stop him from feeling hurt when his brother cranks up the radio.  
  
"I didn't want that kid to die, Dean," Sam says apologetically, "But I'm not sorry for saving you. I love you too much to let you die."  
  
Dean's hands flex on the steering wheel and he presses down more firmly on the accelerator. It's probably just as well that he can't hear Sam. He wouldn't accept it anyway.  
  
*  
  
There're leaving the motel where they killed the Shtriga and Sam can tell Dean is in a good mood because he's beating out Ringo's drum solo on the steering wheel while Sam watches with amusement.  
  
He's not sure what prompts him to say it, but the music is loud and it's habit, so he does. "You know, it's not you that makes them all assume we're gay. It's me. Everyone else sees how much I want you, except for you."  
  
Dean slams on the breaks so hard that Sam's probably lucky he doesn't go flying through the windshield.  
  
"Dude, what the hell!" he yelps, turning to look at his brother...  
  
And Dean is staring at him, eyes wide in shock. Oh. Oh God.  
  
"You could hear me?" Sam says weakly.  
  
"I've _always_ been able to hear you!" Dean yelps, "I would've thought that you'd figured that out by now!"  
  
Sam frowns, thinking back. How when he was thirteen they got a cabin for the whole summer, how at the next school after Sarah Reilly, Dean convinced the hottest girl in the senior class to take him out on a date. How utterly unsurprised his brother had looked when he'd slapped the Stanford packet down on the table.  
  
"Oh my God." he says a little faintly.  
  
"So you wanna tell me what this latest dear diary moment is about?" Dean asks in a low voice.  
  
"Not really," Sam manages. He's never been so mortified in his life.  
  
"Too bad." Dean says lightly. It takes Sam a moment to realize they're moving again, Dean steering his baby over to the shoulder. "Spill."  
  
Sam opens and shuts his mouth several times, trying to find the right words. How exactly do you tell your older brother that you've been in decidedly unbrotherly love with him for upwards of ten years? It's kind of weird, even by Winchester standards.  
  
"If you could hear me, why did you pretend not to all this time?" he hears himself saying accusingly instead.  
  
Dean looks at him like he's an idiot. "Oh, yeah, because we're all about the sharing and caring in this family. Don't think you're going to distract me, Sam. What did you mean by what you just said?"  
  
Sam shrugs and Dean curses loudly and smacks the steering wheel. "Fine. What the fuck _ever_." And then he's pulling back out onto the highway, donning a pair of sunglasses like they'll protect him and blasting the music again.  
  
Though he thinks he's supposed to be relieved, Sam can't help but feel a little disappointed that his brother didn't push the matter.  
  
*  
  
Dean is clearly upset with him though, there's no denying that. He keeps the music at ear-splitting volumes and if he ever so much as glances over at his little brother, Sam can't tell because of the dark shades over his eyes.  
  
He doesn't stop for gas or bathroom breaks all day, white-knuckling the steering wheel until a good three hours after sunset. Finally Sam has had enough.  
  
"Dude!" he shouts, "We should stop for the night." Dean doesn't so much as twitch, so Sam reaches forward and turns the music down.  
  
"Leave it, Sam." Dean snaps, reaching out to turn it back up. Sam catches his wrist before he can.  
  
"We need to stop for the night." he insists, tightening his grip when his brother tries to pull free. Dean's pulse is fluttering frantically under his fingers, so Sam's bracing himself for a fight, but his brother just slumps back against the seat.  
  
"Fine. Next exit's in five miles." When he doesn't make another bid for the volume control, Sam releases him and they go back to staring awkwardly out the windshield.  
  
Five miles has never seemed so far.  
  
*  
  
The place they end up finding is much the same as all the thousands of other motels they've stayed in across the country. Sam wonders absently if there's a world record for that sort of thing. If so, they definitely should have it.  
  
Dean doesn't say anything to him when he parks the car, getting out and heading to the lobby without so much as a glance in his brother's direction and Sam can't believe he fucked everything up so quickly. Why does it seem like he breaks everything he touches?  
  
There's no use sitting in the car and pouting about it, though, so Sam digs their bags out of the truck and is leaning against the car, waiting when Dean gets back with the keys.  
  
"Room seven." he says, and it's the first thing he's said to Sam all day. Funny thing is, Sam didn't even need to hear it; Dean's gotten room seven as often as he can for as long as Sam can remember. He's long forgotten if it was a superstitious thing or what. It's just another quirk in the long list of things that make Dean _Dean_.  
  
Sam feels an ache start in the pit of his stomach at that. If his brother asks him to leave, he's not sure what he'll do.  
  
In the time it's taken him to sort through the jumble of thoughts in his head, Dean's taken off and is already standing at the door to the room, staring back at him.  
  
"You gonna stand out there all night, Sasquatch?" he says sharply, and it's enough to pull him forward, following Dean into the room. The sound of the door clicking shut sounds particularly loud to his ears and he turns slowly away towards his brother.  
  
Dean is standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed, looking serious. Sam should've known he wasn't going to get out of discussing this that easily.  
  
"So, Sammy, let's talk."  
  
Sam shrugs uncomfortably, "I've got nothing to talk about."  
  
"Oh, right, because you didn't tell me that people mistake us as gay because you actually wanna be?" Dean raises his eyebrow, "Because I'm pretty sure that's something we should probably talk about."  
  
"Dude, whatever, I was just talking. I say stuff all the time, it doesn't mean anything." Sam says, pleading a little.  
  
"So it's not true?"  
  
"Does it matter?" Sam asks. Dean looks flabbergasted.  
  
"Of course it does, Sam!" he snaps, "It's kind of a big damn deal!"  
  
"Dean--" Sam opens his mouth, maybe for another attempt at diffusing the situation, but he's not sure, because he never gets the chance. Suddenly Dean is there, in his space, pushing him back into the door.  
  
"How long, Sammy?" his says, an odd tone in his voice. He sounds almost nervous. "How long have you wanted me like that?" His face is too close, eyes wide and dark.  
  
" _Dean_." Sam gasps, "What are you doing?"  
  
"Motivation." Dean murmurs, leaning in even further. At this point, he's standing between Sam's legs, hand pressed flat over his brother's thundering heart. "Is it working?"  
  
"I--Dean...you too?" asks Sam, terrified, but in too far to back out now.  
  
Dean grins, slow and predatory. "Part of being a big brother, kiddo, is sitting around and waiting for your dumb little brother to catch up."  
  
Sam wants to counter that with some protestation, maybe pointing out that he's the one that does all the research in this duo, but then Dean's fisting his hands in his shirt and kissing him, hard, and all of his thoughts fly out the window.  
  
*  
  
When Sam wakes up the next morning, it's to the sound of Foreigner blasting from the cheap alarm radio on the bedside table. Dean comes dancing out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, and tosses his dirty clothes down on the still-made second bed. He flashes a grin at his brother and goes to dig in his duffle bag, still singing along with the radio.  
  
And Sam knows now that his radio trick never worked, but it still seems less terrifying to hide his incredibly chick-flicky proclaimation of love behind the music. So he does.  
  
The only difference is that Dean doesn't pretend not to hear this time, mouth dropping open in split-second surprise before curving into a huge smile.  
  
Sam supposes he can deal with the change.


End file.
